Chapter Text
Cyfrin wandered the long, winding spaces between camp tents, vaguely aware of his dreamstate, still confused by the winding paths, the way camp seemed to stretch on farther than it should, armour stands, stacks of books that just weren’t there before, and towering tents tripping him up at every turn. He needed to keep going. He was searching for something, that much he knew. And he was getting close.
A clatter not far ahead, and Cyfrin found himself breaking into a sprint, vision tunneling, senses rising as the smell of sweat and fear filled his nose. It was intoxicating, euphoric. His heart began to race, wild magic crackling down his body, raising the hairs on his arms and neck. He could feel his pupils constricting, darting, searching still.
Finally an end to the maze was in sight, a wall just ahead. The clatter became louder, the smell becoming so thick it almost stung his nose. Cyfrin grinned, lips pulled so far his cheeks hurt, teeth aching as saliva, drool, washed over them, leaving behind a metallic tang that coagulated in his gums. He thrashed at the obstacles in his path, fist clenched, realizing only now that he was holding a dripping, bloody dagger so tight his knuckles were pale even under the layer of blood that covered them. A full run now, bloody spittle bubbling on his chin, laughter choking its way out of his throat.
He skid to a stop at the end of the path, panting, growling, staring down the wide-eyed prey that cowered against the wall, open containers and scattered potion bottles around it.
Gale. Terrified, clutching a broken bottle, tears streaming down his cheeks. Cyfrin stalled, taking a few startled steps back. A new wave of that fear smell washed over him, so thick it stung his nose. He adjusted the grip on the dagger, feeling his pupils widen, each shivering detail of Gale’s cowering look blindingly clear.
The wizard was saying something Cyfrin couldn’t parse, the thought of shoving his fingers into Gale’s mouth and ripping away his pretty little jaw drowning out any other noise. No, he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. But something deep inside him, some muscle memory, some primal, animal desire wanted to. He screamed in his own mind in response, fighting as each muscle began to pull and jerk itself closer and closer to Gale, towering over him. Blood and drool splattered beneath him, leaving such delicate marks on the wizard's sobbing pleading face. He managed to choke out a desperate “I’m sorry” as the dagger was raised over his head, forced to watch as it came down again and again and again.
Cyfrin jerked awake with a pitiful strained cry, kicking the air in front of him and rolling onto his side. He whimpered, staring at his empty hands, the feeling of blood and viscera still slick between his fingers. Tears splattered onto his sweaty shaky palms, washing away the thin layer of ashy grime sleeping next to the campfire had left him with. Still mumbling incoherently and choking back more noises, he wiped drool and sweat from his mouth, sitting up, the crackle of his wild magic still shaking his chest. Gale’s tent was partially open, no doubt to allow in what little airflow existed in this place. Cyfrin crawled towards it, sitting on his knees about ten feet away. He could just make out the gentle rise and fall of Gale’s chest, and the soft snores that accompanied it.
He sighed with relief, lowering his forehead to the freezing ground, hands tucked against his chest. A deep shiver rattled his bones, releasing with it quiet, stiff sobs. He dug his fingers into his sides, flashes of bloody impulse writhing like bile in his gut. He tried to breathe, focusing on the cold ground and the indents his fingers were leaving in his skin. He wanted to crawl into Gale’s tent, curl around him like a shield and just hold him. He wanted to crawl into his tent, curl around him, dig his fingers into twitching flesh and rip. He pressed his forehead harder into the stone floor, so much so that his tadpole wriggled in discomfort, and his prosthetic eye threatened to pop out of its socket.
He felt the piercing eyes on him long before he finally lifted his head, looking over a crumbling half-wall to see Astarion staring at him. They made eye contact, and Cyfrin slowly lifted himself onto his knees, raising his hands. His face twitched outside of his control. Astarion stayed motionless, staring like a cat in the night, piercing red eyes betraying the mistrust his features were attempting to hide. It was only in this moment that he truly noticed Astarion’s distinct lack of breath, the unmoving of his ribs that left him with an uncanny stillness. Cyfrin extended a tadpole connection, watching Astarion’s brow furrow, his nose crinkle, before he completed it. The wave of distrust, of something close to fear, washed over Cyfrin. Guilt tugged his stomach in response.
“I’m in control.” Cyfrin said through the connection, wondering, hoping, that the sincerity in his tone carried through it. “For now. The urges are fading. I had a horrible dream. I had to make sure Gale was okay.”
There were a few moments of silence before Astarion replied. “I hope you know a massive half-orc shambling on all fours across the floor mumbling to himself is a rather terrifying sight. Especially given your …history.”
“I apologise.” Cyfrin bowed his head. He would have been amused, were the events of the dream not attempting to replay themselves in his mind. “The nightmare did not leave me in the best state of mind.” A shiver overtook his body, making him wince and hunch once more. He tried to stifle the thoughts that rushed forth, of crimson puddles and squishy ligaments between his fingers. It washed over him after a few moments, followed by shame at what he knew Astarion had witnessed too.
Silence fell over the connection, filled not with disgust, as Cyfrin expected, but a fleeting feeling of understanding. Of empathy, amongst a sea of mistrust and a new wash of unease. The small wisp of empathy faded however, quickly replaced with the distinct shink of a dagger before Astarion spoke again.
“You don't look very in control.” Flashes of what Astarion saw flitted through Cyfrin's mind. The dim firelight was doing him no favours, that was certain. His hair was a mess, obscuring half his still twitching face, stuck to it with sweat and grime. He was breathing harder than he thought, chest heaving, muscles straining the sleeves of his shirt. His good eye shone like that of an owlbear, giving the illusion of white pupil on a dark sclera. His nose was bleeding, the glob of crimson just resting on his top lip.
Cyfrin lowered his head and sighed, wiping his nose before wrapping his hands around the back of his neck. “When I lose control I become like an animal. I can't speak properly, can't form coherent sentences that don't involve some form of cruelty.” He paused for a moment. “I can show you. It will be a gruesome image. But I can show you. I know you’ve seen what creeps through my thoughts. But you do not know the full extent of it.”
“...You aren’t going to give in to the urges, right?”
“Gods, no!” Cyfrin couldn't help but scoff. “Just a memory. I may be dim sometines but I’m not a f*cking idiot, Astarion.”
“Just making sure.” Astarion snapped. “Show me, then.”
Cyfrin paused a moment more, tensing his jaw before he shared his shattered memory of the last time he had lost control. Astarion’s face twisted, twitching lip flashing a bared fang, clicked tongue stifling a hiss. Cyfrin shared too the desperate love that he fought so hard to keep, the deep desire to keep Gale safe, to bite down on the urges that begged for blood and viscera to stain his lips.
“Enough, enough.” Astarion shook his head and blocked the memory from continuing, a strange mix of reverence and disgust filling the gap of silence. “I believe you.” Another shink of a dagger, this time returning to its holster.
Cyfrin put his hands in his lap, turning his gaze back to Gale, watching the wizard's chest rise and fall, a hand loosely holding the thin blanket that laid across his torso. “I love him too much to hurt him. Despite something in me demanding it.” The aches in Cyfrin’s fingers ebbed away, tears drying themselves on his cheeks. “He is everything to me and more.”
“Are you sure you’re alright?”
“Heh,” Cyfrin shook his head. “I am in control of myself, if that is the question you want to ask. I won’t lose control tonight. I think your confrontation helped snap me out of it.”
Despite the silence that fell between them, Cyfrin felt Astarion's tension dim. The connection sizzled and faded, that piercing red gaze leaving Cyfrin's peripheral, followed by the sound of a tent clasp snapping shut. The urges had nearly dissipated now, a manageable buzz behind the wriggling tadpole that still clambored for what tendrils remained of the illithid connection. He pulled himself closer to Gale, exhaustion shaking his arms as he laid his head next to the wizard's torso. He tucked his limbs into a foetal position, trying to blink away the sleep that weighed down his eyelids. The smell of old books, brass, tea, and musk soon washed over him, settling like a long lost comfort that only deepened as Gale shifted positions onto his side, facing the tent opening, the hand that once rested on his stomach now just barely brushing Cyfrin’s hairline. Gentle, tired fingers trailed over Cyfrin’s cheek, unconsciously tracing the scars that lined it. Cyfrin finally closed his eyes, slow, deep breaths finally returning to him, and sleep along with it. A peaceful, dreamless sleep.
He awoke the next morning to quiet humming and his head resting comfortably in Gale’s lap, the wizard’s hands running through his hair, working through tangles as he hummed. Cyfrin mumbled something even he himself couldn't understand, rubbing sleep from his eyes and looking up at Gale, who smiled down at him.
“Good morning my love,” Gale said softly, cupping the side of Cyfrin’s face. “It was a delight to wake up to you this morning. Was something troubling you last night? You had quite the bloody nose.”
“A nightmare, is all.” Cyfrin pulled himself up, kissing Gale’s forehead. “I had to make sure you were alright, and when you were, I just,” he chuckled, a little embarrassed now that he was speaking aloud. “I fell asleep next to you. Oh, gods,” he checked over Gale’s nightshirt. “I didn’t get blood all over you, did I?” As much as the sight of Gale covered in another’s blood made him swoon, he didn’t want to ruin the gorgeous nightshirt Gale worked so hard to keep pristine.
“No, no.” Gale gestured to a small wadded ball of cloth sitting in a bowl just beside him. “Most of it was dried, I cleaned up what I could from your face. Are you sure you’re alright, my love? Nightmares don’t typically leave one with a bloody nose.” he cupped Cyfrin’s face, thumb gently trailing over his bruised undereyes.
“I am now.” Cyfrin said softly, leaning into Gale’s palm. “It’s no worry, love. I promise.”
In truth, Cyfrin was worrying a lot. Flashes of the dream seared the back of his mind, moulding itself between the countless sick fantasies that addled him. He looked at Gale lovingly, despite it all, despite the faux taste of blood in his throat, hoping his face didn’t betray him. He focused on the pulse that beat in Gale’s wrist, the warmth that radiated from his palm. Gale returned his loving gaze, still a bit of worry stitched into his brow.
“You’re a bad liar, love.” Gale chuckled, running his thumb over his cheekbone. “It’s okay. You don’t have to talk about it right now.” he kissed Cyfrin’s forehead. “I hope you don’t mind, but I do have to start breakfast before the others begin stirring.”
“What are you planning?” Cyfrin moved out of Gale’s way, admiring his midriff as he stood up and stretched.
“A simple grape tart.” Gale said with a grunt. “And a few baked apples for the road.” He looked over his shoulder. “I found a rather informative recipe book in the kitchens at Moonrise, and I’m very excited to try them.”
